


Gentle The Rage.

by VelociraptorMarie



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-11-23 00:01:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11391132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VelociraptorMarie/pseuds/VelociraptorMarie
Summary: The unlikely reunion of a bloodthirsty Hound and a Little Bird with a broken wing.





	1. Sansa I.

**Author's Note:**

> For Lizzie, who believes in San/San as I do.
> 
> This San/San story takes place shortly after the Battle Of The Bastards, all previous events following canon according to the television series, with some nods to details from the books.
> 
> *WARNING: Contains recollections of sexual abuse that may include specific mental/emotional triggers for some readers.
> 
> I do not own most of the images/gifs/photo manipulations used. I merely found them online and thought they would complement my story. However, I'll take credit for the ones I do edit myself. :) 
> 
> ***

_"I'm a part of you now."_

The voice of a dead man continued to antagonize her mind as she sunk to the floor beside her chamber pot, wiping the sweat from her forehead with an equally sweaty hand. She was relieved of the miserable nausea for the moment, and she knew it wouldn't last.

 _"Sansa"_ his voice persisted.

Once more, the back of her throat grew moist and her head began to spin. The very threat of the inevitable drew her eyes shut in distress, which proved to be of no help. Her gut wrenched. Trembling violently, she reached to the right and grasped the bowl of the pot, hoisting herself to hover above it and vomit a second time. Then a third.

_"Sansa."_

Her arms collapsed and hugged the stone bowl, her head resting on its cold edge. She felt warm tears roll down the swollen surface of her upper cheeks. Sansa squinted, for it stung a bit. Her stomach ached now, but ceased to wrench. Some moments passed.

Shakily, Sansa rose to her feet. She made her way to the vanity, where sat a pitcher of water that she used to wet a cloth and wipe the residue of sickness from her face. To be sure she was clean, she confronted her reflection in the oval mirror sitting atop, and an almost familiar young woman stared back. Amber locks encircled her pale frame as they fell in loose, yet tangled ringlets. Her blue irises were shrouded in swelling and redness. This was not unfamiliar to Sansa, after all her episodes of sobbing both within the imprisonment of Meagor's Holdfast and within this very castle, during her second marriage. It was something else that Sansa found unrecognizable in her reflection now; it was an ethereal glow to her very skin. She puzzled on this until she could recall having seen this same glow about her Mother before. Three times in her life, to be exact.

And just like that, she was overwhelmed with an understanding that merely confirmed what she'd already suspected, with an undeniable, dreadful certainty. The blood drained from Sansa's face, leaving her light-headed and all the paler, for she knew it to be true; In the mirror before her was a woman with child.

***


	2. Sandor I.

_I should have just killed them all and been done with it._

But no. For some bloody unknown reason, The Hound had willingly accompanied these Red God lovers through the Riverlands. They're good men, his conscience challenged him. Delusional twats, but well-intended all the same, he resolved. His aggravation, however, had been growing increasingly during his short time with the Brotherhood. He needed his own horse, he needed armor. Gods, he needed some fucking wine for a good night's sleep. As he ran the blade of his axe along the borrowed, shit excuse for a whetstone , he caught a blurry glimpse of his reflection; a mangled, ugly, shaggy mess. Fuck, he growled to himself, unreasonably furious. He needed a damned shave!

"Coming with us, Clegane?" his counterpart pressed again, as they readied to move onward.

He had his answer for Dondarrion. A fortnight had passed since he'd granted The Hound those two measly kills and a hot meal. At the time, he was contemplating whether or not to veer off to White Harbor when the time came, make his leave for the Free Cities and start anew, while the Brotherhood insisted he contribute to the "Northern Cause", as they put it. But if there was any truth to their claims, then this was about a whole hell of a lot more than the North alone...

_"Seen it in the fire, I did."_ Thoros had said, matter-of-factly. _"The Night King marches South with an incomparable army of the dead at his back. Making to confront Azor Ahai himself."_

_"That what you named your cock?" Sandor snorted, tossing back a final swig of the best ale he'd tasted since King's Landing. These cunts knew how to drink properly, he'd give them that. But he wasn't about to lend an ear to this load of horse shit._

_"That would be Bartholomew, if you really want to know." Thoros countered._

_"He speaks of the Prince Who Was Promised; The warrior reborn to defeat the darkness once and for all." Beric interjected._

_"And let me guess, that reincarnated warrior is none other than Ser Beric Dondarrion, the flaming sword-wielding shit who just won't die, and now he needs my help in achieving eternal glory." Sandor didn't stop there; "The sooner you accept that Men are the darkness, the longer you'll live without a drunken Red Priest's help. Beric wasn't discouraged. He pressed on._

_"Not I." he said simply. "But I have a part to play, same as you."_

_Thoros continued to elaborate; "The Lord of Light has shown to me a young man, like to be no older than ten and nine. Black of hair and of cloak, wielding a Valyrian steel sword. With which he shattered a White Walker."_

_"A man of the Night's Watch." Sandor stated, inhaling his last savored flap of chicken skin. "You fools mean to make for the wall, then." He chewed and swallowed all too soon._

_"Aye," Beric and Thoros replied in unison._

They had taken their time navigating through the Riverlands, and Sandor suspected that Beric and Thoros were purposefully delaying the Brotherhood's advance to the North, at least to some extent. They had done a great deal of hunting to sustain themselves onward, but more than necessary in his opinion. Once a small army in its own right, the Brotherhood now consisted of Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, Anguy the Archer and one other bearded fucker who remained nameless, as he hadn't bothered to introduce himself and Sandor didn't give enough of a flying shit to ask, That, and there was something about his face that just made him want to punch it. They'd managed to venture past the Twins unscathed, despite the Frey army's efforts to find their Lord's killer; They'd had a few altercations in which none of the idiots seemed to recognize him save for one green knight and his puny infantry. They'd assumed the Brotherhood's close proximity to the castle was indicative of their involvement in Walder Frey's murder. They were no longer a problem, though, after he took the liberty of silencing the ringleader once and for all with a single blow of his fist, followed by a good old fashioned axe slaughter upon the rest. To this, Beric did not object, as he considered the Freys to be enemies of the realm after their deplorable treatment of the Starks.

As they entered Northern territory, Sandor was considering joining their venture to the wall if only to take the black. After all, it's what the Hound deserved, and he was smart enough to know he'd flourish there; his massive size, strength and extensive fighting history were all qualities the Night's Watch would consider valuable, and his known temperament was something they'd be itching to harness and direct at their discretion. Contrary to the higher purpose the Brotherhood was so insistent on condemning him with, the Hound was an ideal contender for the Watch. He'd been a piece of shit and done unforgivable deeds in his life. He held no lands, no titles, no knighthood and no desires, save for one: Killing his brother. Or what was left of him, at least.

The Brotherhood had heard varying accounts of current events in their travels prior to encountering The Hound, and made a point to update him on the Mountain's brutality in trial by combat against Dorne's infamous Prince, The Viper.

_"Gregor won the battle in the end, but neither lived to tell the tale. I hear tell his body was re-animated by that miscreant Maester, into something...else. Something entirely inhuman."_

_"As if my brother was ever human at all," Sandor snorted. "Sounds too ambitious for that piss ant Pycell."_

_"Maester Pycell is dead. The Mad Queen Cersei had him killed, on the same morn as-"_

_"Queen Regent Cersei, you mean?" Sandor guffawed._

_"No." Thoros stated plainly, his expression serious enough to convey that the lioness had a legitimate crown on her head beyond her children's illegitimate claims to the throne._

_"I leave King's Landing to burn, and burn it does." Sandor mumbled._

_"Quite literally, Clegane. The Lannister whore burned down the Sept with wildfire, with the Tyrells inside. Only the eldest broad lives" Thoros elaborated._

_"And King Tommen is said to have thrown himself from his Chamber window."_

_"A real tragedy, an incestuous curse as they say. Songs are already being sung of the bitch's sick travesty of a reign."_

_"And what of the imp?" he'd asked them, having been roughly informed on the details of the trial for Joffrey's murder. He'd taken it all with a few grains of salt, but he had to admit the whole concept of the Lannisters framing their dwarf for murder was as amusing as it was believable._

_"He and his wife escaped." Ser beard replied. "But not before killing his Lord Father, Tywin."_

_"I heard his Lady Sansa had disappeared before her husband was even seized." The younger archer added._

_"Sansa Stark?" Sandor spat, aghast._

_"Lady Sansa Lannister now." The lad dared to correct him._

_An illustration of Tyrion Lannister in all his four-foot-tall glory attempting to cloak Sansa, no doubt standing in straight posture like all perfect Ladies do at the altar, then played across his mind and his initial reaction was to laugh at the whole ordeal. He immediately felt differently, though, upon imagining him attempting to bed her. His fist clenched to white knuckles. He knew the imp would not mistreat Sansa like her original betrothed, but he knew too well it had been the Lannisters' purposeful doing; What better way to further humiliate and punish the girl than to free her of an abusive sentence to Joffrey's chamber and hand her off instead to a renowned brothel lecher, too short to fondle her tits, let alone kiss her mouth? And the thought of him successfully doing so sent fury rising in his chest. He wanted to think her foolish for declining his offer to flee King's Landing, despite his abrasive manner, but he couldn't deny that his failure to conceal the other she-wolf from the lion's eye gave merit to her decision. His own foolishness had been laughable. Almost as laughable as Sansa Stark's naive ideals of chivalry and maidenhood and the world in general had been. But nothing had been so foolish as his childish affection for her._

_"At least she escaped the lions' den after all." he'd said aloud._

"Sandor Clegane." It was still odd to hear a female's voice in the present company.

He glowered in Melisandre's direction as she approached, unafraid of him. He had not met the Red Woman prior to her appearing in the swamp lands of The Neck only two nights past, where they were setting up camp for the nightfall. The Brotherhood had been acquainted with her before, and welcomed her warmly. According to Beric, she had been greatly humbled in some manner since their last meeting, and brought some very important information about the "Northern Cause" along with her.

_"Do not make for Castle Black" she'd advised openly to the small entirety of the Brotherhood. "The man you seek is Jon Snow, former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch."_

_Ned Stark's brooding, sullen bastard boy?_

_"He was mutinied by his own black-cloaked men, and much like my dear Beric here, he rose again. I know, because I was there. I brought him back."_

_"So why are you here now? Taking a leisurely stroll through the marshes?" Sandor had challenged._

_"I've been exiled." She didn't bat an eyelid, but she looked to the ground when she said it._

_"Exiled by whom? From where? And for what reason?" The Hound was finding he still had little patience for any evasiveness whatsoever._

_"By Jon Snow. He has retaken Winterfell. The Bolton bloodline is extinct. You'll only need look around you, as Direwolf banners fly from here to Castle Black. The Northern houses and the Vale have bent the knee and hailed him The King In The North. There is an army of Wildlings at his back as well. They understand that the dead march South, and King Snow is the one to lead us through the long night." she explained. "I was rightfully exiled. I mistook many signs from the Lord Of Light, and made one notably vile, terrible mistake and an innocent child was killed. Regret is my burden to carry, for the rest of my days."_

_"So it's true, then? He really killed a White Walker?" Sandor pressed. He had seen Dondarrion come back to life after killing the fucker himself, so some part of him couldn't question that part of her story. Someone had to be cynical, though, and he could always be counted on for that._

_"He did." she confirmed. "But there's thousands more where that came from."_

_"The Prince That Was Promised." Thoros sang wistfully._

Whether it was true or not, it meant he had fewer miles to walk, he supposed, realizing his decision was made. He was finished with running, and there was no fucking way he was heading South, what with Lannister men scouring about and the bounty on his head that was no less active now, he guessed, with that yellow-haired harlot on the throne.

"Go with them." Melisandre insisted for the ten thousandth time since her arrival, as he rose to his feet. She had lingered with the Brotherhood for a couple of days, apparently to counsel religiously (and possibly coitally if their private excursions off into the wilderness were any indication, Sandor thought) with Beric.

"Aye, I'm going." he said with a newly found certainty, before she could go on another rant about his supposed purpose in the "wars to come".

"You don't know it now, but you will." she said.

"I know they need me for killing, which is exactly what I'll do." he shrugged nonchalantly.

Perhaps he'd feel more enthusiastic once he had access to wine and food and hot water. He was sure he'd be irritable until then, at least. Assuming, of course, that this "King In The North: The Sequel" didn't decide to hang him for being a renowned son of a bitch. At the very least, he had already seen a Stark banner atop an Inn a few miles North of Fever River. Oddly and for no discernible reason, it ever so slightly made him want to press on towards Winterfell.

"Are you certain you won't continue North with us, my Lady?" Beric asked her.

"My King has sent me South, so that's where I stay until I'm guided otherwise." she said simply, making to leave for Gods knew where.

"That and it'll be her head if she returns." The Hound laughed.

The Priestess abruptly turned back around and approached Sandor once more, reaching her left hand to place it against the scarred ruin of his right cheek.

"Fire." She said. "Fire will be my end, I'm afraid. Make it your ally, and it won't be yours."

It was a rare instance of The Hound being rendered speechless, as the Red Woman made her leave to the South, and they proceeded quietly to the North.


	3. Sansa II.

It was no easy feat, waking from such a slumber. Sansa's eyelids weighed heavily in protest to her body's every attempt to rise. She couldn't be sure how long she'd slept; Hours? Days, perhaps? There was light streaming into the room between a pair of curtains that hung over her largest window, but it wore a grey tint that could have indicated morning to midday to evening for all Sansa could tell; The days were growing darker in Winterfell, which was to be expected come winter.

And come, it had. The cold was growing unbearably outside the fortunate confines of her home, the winds painful as they whipped across any exposed flesh. At times, she could hear it start to howl against her window, reminding her of Lady. She tried as she might to replace the ache in her heart with only the fond memories of her wolf, and it was just about as effective as trying to replace her overwhelming guilt and sorrow for her family with the triumphant satisfaction of freshly executed sweet revenge.

Her current predicament made it all the more difficult, despite how far she'd come. Just when she'd started to feel some control over her own life, the Gods had laughed in her face once more and given her this; The fruit of a twisted bastard's loins, conceived by an act of evil to grow and haunt her from the inside out, poisoning her family's ancient line with Bolton blood.

No, she thought. This cannot be. It won't be. Surely there had to be an alternative to her impending fate, bringing a bastard's bastard into the world. How could she love and nurture the very physical manifestation of her suffrage at the hands of Ramsay Bolton? She couldn't.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on her chamber door, followed by the feminine, Bear Island dialect belonging to her handmaiden.

"Forgive me, Your Grace. My Lady seems to have fallen ill."

At this, Sansa's door slowly opened to reveal the foggy image of her half brother Jon, wearily entering her room. Sansa rubbed her eyes in hopes of clearing her sleep-ridden vision.

"There is nothing to forgive, Hadley. Please leave us." Jon said, as he took a seat at Sansa's bedside, making to remove a cold compress from her forehead that she had not realized was there.

Hadley, Sansa's recently appointed handmaiden, had been gifted to her by Lady Mormont following their victory at Winterfell. The girl was slightly older than Sansa, and of little handmaiden experience. Sansa nodded warmly and appreciatively in her direction, before Hadley bowed and exited, closing the chamber door behind her.

"Should I be concerned?" Jon asked, though it was clear to Sansa that he already was, fetching a bowl of fresh, cold water from her vanity and returning to his seat beside her.

Sansa frowned and shook her head, insisting that she was merely overtaken with exhaustion from recent events.

"I gathered you must be, having been asleep for two whole days." Jon said, ringing out the cloth in the bowl and placing it back on her forehead. He didn't look convinced, but he also appeared preoccupied with something, his brooding gaze focused elsewhere, somewhere far away.

"What is it?" Sansa asked.

"We received a raven from Dragonstone late last evening, signed by Tyrion Lannister." Jon paused shortly, but continued on at Sansa's confused expression. "He signed with a new title, proclaiming as Hand Of The Queen, to Daenerys Targaryen."

"The lost Princess?!" Sansa exclaimed. She was well educated in Targaryen history, as was custom. Truthfully, she'd found it all terribly boring as a young Lady, aside from a slight fascination with the only Princess born to the Mad King. Sansa recalled that she had been born in hiding at Dragonstone during Robert Baratheon's usurpation, only to disappear into exile before Stannis Baratheon sacked the castle on Robert's orders.

"Lost no longer, it would seem." Jon sighed. "She intends to retake the Iron Throne for her family. Somehow, she has managed to procure quite the impressive army of skilled warriors from across the Narrow Sea, in addition to an alliance with The Martells, The Tyrells and Theon Greyjoy."

Sansa sat upright now, eyes widened at this information. Theon? Not so long ago, Theon had left her in the capable hands of Brienne to make for The Wall, and he was headed home to the Iron Islands. And Tyrion, Hand Of The so-called Queen?!

"And how did my former Lord Husband come to be involved in this?" she wondered aloud, raising Jon's eyebrows. She had informed him of her first marriage, but she guessed it was still an awkward concept for Jon to consider. "Last I saw him, he was standing there dumbfounded in front of a choking, dying Joffrey. And the way Petyr framed him, I assumed he would have been executed. It pleases me to know that he was not. He was kind to me."

"I'll have many questions for him when I arrive, I'm sure. His letter was not unfriendly, though I'm not sure I'll understand their purpose to summoning me until I can speak with them in person. My purpose is to request aide in the war to come. If this Queen wants her family's land back, she'll have to help us defend it against the dead."

"And if she refuses?" Sansa challenged.

"Then unfortunately, I'm afraid she'll freeze with the rest of us once Winter truly takes hold. Even if these supposed dragons take it upon themselves to protect her, it will be for not." Jon chuckled.

If Sansa's eyes could possibly widen further, they did in this instance. "Dragons." She said like a statement, not a question. This was all starting to sound a bit too far-fetched to her. "Dragons have been extinct for over a century."

"And the White Walkers were for many." Jon replied. He has a point, she thought.

"How did she procure these dragons?" Sansa felt like she was suddenly asking a great deal of questions, and would continue to be.

"Of her many titles noted in Lord Tyrion's letter, The Mother Of Dragons is among them. It seems as though she claims to have birthed them in some manner." Jon explained with little enthusiasm.

"You don't believe it." Sansa observed.

Jon shrugged. "After the things I've seen, I can't presume to doubt it. If they do exist, and will not be of assistance to us against the White Walkers, I'm afraid we have another dangerous enemy with the odds stacked against us. If it should come to that--"

"Then the North stands alone." Sansa finished his sentence.

"Aye, alone. But we will hold strong as we have for thousands of years. As descendants of the First Men, it is our duty."

Sansa unwillingly smiled at this. As uncertain and terrifying the prospect of this Great War was, Jon's newly found sense of Stark pride pleased her. For a moment, she reveled in a thankfulness that should the world of Men be overthrown by White Walkers and Dragons and other supernatural forces that could emerge from the woodwork at any given time, at least she would be a Stark in Winterfell when it happened. Perhaps if she hadn't ever been Joffrey's hostage intended in King's Landing under Stannis's siege, she would not appreciate these circumstances in the same way.

"Ser Davos and I are to ride at first light." Jon continued.

"I'll see that the kitchens prepare rations for you, then. As well as some extra furs." Sansa offered.

"Podrick has already taken such responsibilities upon himself since his return this morning. You needn't trouble yourself with anything but regaining your strength, sister." Jon assured her, tucking her back into bed as if she were a small child, before rising to make his leave. "Lady Brienne has returned safely as well." he answered her next question without having to be asked.

Sansa hugged one of her extra pillows and rolled onto her side. Her gut was aching in an odd way, though she thought she knew why. "You must send a raven once you've arrived and as often as you are able, so I know you're alive." Historically, Kings In The North did not fare well under the roof of a fellow House.

"Of course." Jon said, placing a brief kiss on her forehead, and then he was gone, leaving Sansa to fall back into her troubled sleep.

****

Despite the relentlessness of her dreams throughout the night, the following morning had been kinder to Sansa, experiencing no nausea and very little abdominal discomfort. She rose with the dawn to see Jon and Ser Davos off to the South, tended to some matters about the castle and retreated back to her chamber by midday, pondering on what little she knew about pregnancy. As a Lady, she was only brought up to know that she would one day help a Lord or a King produce little ones to carry out his legacy and it would be her primary purpose in life. Never did her Mother inform her on the finer details of any aspect, from her red flower's first bloom to the act of marital consummation to the actual conception and carriage of a baby. Thus far, it had all been so much uglier and gorier than she could have ever imagined, and her imagination was no longer the pretty place it once was.

When she was initially betrothed to the Prince, she could not wait to bleed, for the sooner she bled the sooner she became his Queen. All such notions had dissipated completely by the time it did happen; She had been in such a frantic state that she actually attempted to cut the bloody evidence out of her mattress. Shae did her best to help Sansa postpone her fate, but to no avail...

_"The other ladies of the court will sniff it out. Believe that." The Hound assured her harshly. Why in Seven Hells he was even passing through the Holdfast that morning to begin with was beyond her, but she understood his meaning. The Queen would find out sooner or later. "Best the blessed news comes from you, girl." Her face reddened further in embarrassment on top of the tearful distress she was already in. How improper it was that a man that was not her husband should be in her room, seeing the contents of her menstruation across the bed. Propriety aside, she had to agree, and ultimately sent for Her Grace herself as both Shae and The Hound made themselves scarce._

She never did thank him for the advice. At the time, she thought it the most humiliating moment of her life. If only, she thought. Joffrey giving her away to the Imp most definitely took the cake, with crouching to her knees adding insult to injury so that her then new Lord Husband could cloak her. Tyrion had encouraged her to drink as much wine as she desired that day and night, and it did little to calm her anxiety about the bedding. As it turned out, it wasn't enough for the Imp either, and neither could execute the consummation at any point. For that, she was grateful.

She was more grateful when Petyr Baelish stole her away to the Eyrie. How little she knew then, still, after all she'd been through, she was still a naive child with much to learn when introduced to her Aunt Lysa. The sounds of Petyr and Lysa's marriage consummation echoed through the halls of the Eyrie, sounds she'd never been exposed to before and never could have envisioned herself making with Tyrion or Joffrey, or anyone for that matter. Lysa vocalized as if she was experiencing a great deal of pain, but then as if she was incredibly pleased with it somehow, and had been many times in her life, it turned out. An evening of eavesdropping had revealed to her that Petyr and Lysa had made love in their youth, rendering Lysa pregnant with his illegitimate child. According to the tale spun by Lysa, her own father, Sansa's Grandfather  
Hoster Tully, had tricked Lysa into drinking a special tea containing the tansy plant, killing Petyr's unborn son in the womb.

At the time, Sansa found the concept horrifying and sorrowful, which is why she found it so surreal now, to be sneaking out of the confines of Winterfell and into the wolfswood, in search of tansy. _Marriage changes people_ , Lysa had told her. How true that had turned out to be in the case of her second marriage arrangement. She shuddered, and it had nothing to do with the cold flurries of snow biting at her cheeks as she exited the Keep.


	4. Sandor II.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers! Sorry I'm not updating more frequently. I've been working, not feeling very well and also preparing for the Season 7 Premiere Party I'm throwing this weekend. This chapter is short, I hope you all enjoy it anyway!
> 
> Valar Morghulis :)

Entering the Winter Town at twilight, The Hound recalled his last visit to Winterfell. While this corner of Westeros had always been dimmer lit than the rest, the presence of life surrounding the heart of the North had been significantly stronger then, when Eddard Stark sat as warden. Even during the night, the noise of the smallfolk could have been heard, as the farmers, smithies and bakers put their children to bed and took to the taverns. Now, though it was far from empty if the bright torches illuminating the thick snowfall throughout were any indication, the place was quiet, save for the brothel tavern he had visited last time. Beric had made the executive decision that they'd inquire about an extra room they could stay in until first light, as this King In The North may not take kindly to their unexpected arrival after nightfall. 

_Winter is here_ , the thought. _The fucking cold, dark, miserable ass winter_. 

But the tavern was warm, and he was glad for it. Northern hospitality was never given nearly enough credit, if you asked him. Even now, in the aftermath of a war that claimed the lives of their noble family and starved their people, they remained generous as ever.

"Got two rooms, if yeh like. Couple lads may need to bunk together." the Madame offered. "Though you'll need to be out by midday on the morrow. My girls make profit in the evenings, they'll need the rooms...Speaking of, I'll give yeh a deal if yeh see anythin' yeh like."

"The rooms will do fine," Beric said. "Thank you."

"Anythin' for a Knight who fought for Lord Eddard." She gushed at Dondarrion, making bedroom eyes as she emphasized the word "anything". 

"Speak for yourself," Thoros chimed in, "I'll have that brunette." He fiddled with a silver coin between his fingers and beckoned to a woman with dark, long hair, an average frame and plain face. 

The Madame snapped in the woman's direction, and she came to retrieve Thoros, taking his arm and leading him up the stairs to some vacant room.

Beric and the rest of the Brotherhood retired to bed, but The Hound couldn't sleep. Not when he was in such close proximity to some decent red wine being poured nearby for the only two other men occupying the tavern; Old lowborn Northerners recounting stories from the pathetically failed Greyjoy Rebellion all those years ago. 

He took a seat in the corner and pulled his hood down, asking the Madame for a pitcher. Upon seeing his face, the woman flinched as if she, of course, recognized the mangled half for who he was. She said nothing, though, and proceeded to bring him what he asked for, leaving him to his own drunken devices until he asked for another.

The only upside of not being able to drink much in his travels was that it now took less to actually get him drunk, though it still required almost two and a half pitchers to get him inebriated. As he gulped down the first half of the third pitcher in one swig, something caught his peripheral attention. 

It was a slender, hooded figure descending the stairs. The hand sliding along the railing appeared feminine, as did the very steps the figure made. It was on the taller side for a woman and stood straight, suggestive of nobility. And like a flame, a single strand of long, auburn hair flew freely outside the hood.

The Madame met the figure at the end of the stairs. "M'lady, if it please!"

It was followed by an exasperated "Ssshh!" from the figure. 

The Madame spoke quieter now, but not quiet enough. "Forgive me, M'lady. It's just yeh oughta be restin'. At least 'till daylight, M'lady. I insist."

She appeared to be remembering her courtesies and complying with the Madame, striding back up the stairs. 

_M'lady_. And he'd recognize that shade of red anywhere, piss drunk or not. It had been his last dying thought as her little sister left him to rot in the Riverlands, after all. After downing the last half of his third wine pitcher, in a pleasantly drunken stupor he sauntered up the stairs with every intention of finding out what the fuck Sansa Stark was doing in a brothel.


	5. Sansa III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers!! I hope you're all still with me on this. I'm terribly sorry for taking so long to update, the past month has been busier for me than usual. Your patience and support are much appreciated! :)

Sansa did not find what she was looking for in the wolfswood. For a couple of hours, she searched every small patch of greenery that remained for the tansy, to no avail. She wracked her brain on the walk back towards the Keep. That's when it occurred to her; The Winter Town brothel. If anyone regularly brewed and administered moon tea, it was undoubtedly whores. Would they help her? She had to find out.

Instead of returning to the castle as planned, she took the long way around its bordering walls and entered the town, pulling her hood to conceal her face and hair as best she could. Fortunately, the brothel Madame Lorraine had maintained a fierce sense of loyalty to her family, and had been happy to oblige her Lady Stark with discretion. As it turned out, she already had some moon tea brewed and ready. Sansa offered her a sack of silver as payment, which she respectfully refused.

"I warn M'lady, it tastes like piss. And I got no mint to mellow it out neither."

And it did, at least to the extent Sansa could imagine. She nearly gagged as she swallowed the contents as quickly as possible, an unpleasant chill passing through her.

 _It's done_ , she thought, and may have even said aloud.

She now hoped Brienne wasn't already out searching for her, but she quickly discovered that Madame Lorraine was probably right to make her wait out the night.

Just after entering her sleeping quarters and hanging up her cloak, a surge of excruciating pain radiated from her upper stomach all the way down to her kneecaps; Similar to menstrual pain, but more unbearable with a sharp pressure. More alarming, though, was the feeling of something exiting her body, down there, something other than blood. A soft but thick material, followed by a trickle of some liquid running down her leg. She looked down to find the blood that was also not unlike her red flower's bloom, but accompanied by a bloody clump of some sort comprised of what she guessed to be the soft material she felt come out with it. It left the floor a mess.

Sansa held her abdomen as she went to the water basin and grabbed a washcloth, wet it down and wrung it out to clean first between her legs, then the floor. Her nausea returned with a cold sweat and a crippling faintness. Normally she would be incredibly reluctant to climb into a dirty brothel bed, but she crawled onto the small cot and under the covers as if her life depended on it, shivering until her eyes drew closed.

***

"What have we gotten ourselves into now, little bird?" A familiar rasp pulled her vaguely from the dark nothingness.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" She bit, always slightly braver in her dreams.

He chuckled, clearing the fog of sleep from her vision to reveal that face. Terrible as it was, she welcomed it as an odd sort of comfort to her subconscious. "You aren't dying, I should hope?"

"Why would you hope that?"

"I have yet to hear you sing."

She willed a look into the depths of his eyes, and searched them for the fury that had once shaken her so and taken so many lives. It was there, only now instead of terrorizing her, it was looming beneath a prominent presence of sadness, and waiting to play with her own. She was not afraid of him.

"Perhaps you won't." she said with a smirk, her eyelids growing heavy again and the darkness pulling her back into the arms of sleep.

***

She hadn't dreamed of him since her last slumber in the Eyrie, and her groggy state had her unconvinced that she was awake even now. He had come to her, almost as drunk as the night the Blackwater went up in emerald flames, as she could smell it on his breath. He'd placed the back of his abnormally large hand against her forehead. He'd been the same man she knew years ago, save for a thicker, more lengthy beard. Their short conversation was more vivid than any memory, and realer than her life. Did she associate the Hound with times of distress? Did she use her memory of him as a means of coping with it?

She shook off the absurd thoughts and climbed out of her cot, taking little time to clean herself up and prepare her clothing for the walk back to the castle, hoping to sneak back into her chamber before sunrise. Once she was fully decent, thankful for her thick cloak and furs as her muscles would be all the tenser out in the frigid air, she turned the knob on her door to make her leave.

As it opened and swung in, a sitting, snoring Hound came with it, his back crashing onto the floor as Sansa gasped and jumped backwards. Almost in the same instance, the snoring stopped, and Sansa screamed for a moment before he was on his feet, placing one massive, calloused hand over her mouth. His other hand was at her waist, all but holding her against the far wall.

"Don't scream." he said, his dark eyes imploring hers. "You're safe".

She studied him wide-eyed , and covered his hand with her own if only to confirm that he was really there and not just a figment of her overly active imagination. He ran his thumb across her fingers. She relaxed, and he must have felt it because he slowly withdrew his hand from her face, then grasping her hand in full.

"You're really here." she stated, "And inappropriate as ever." She dropped her hand free from his. 

He guffawed, "That's the thanks I get for guarding your door all night, is it?"

_All night!_

"As if you could defend me from anyone whilst unconscious."

The Hound frowned. No, glared. He folded his arms across his broad chest, his figure deflecting the small amount of light emitted from her bedside candle."Ungrateful Little Bird."

"Perhaps I'd be more inclined to thank you if I were in any danger, Sir. The people of the Winter Town are loyal to me as Lady of Winterfell. I'm as safe as ever in the North." she rolled her eyes.

"Brothels are no place for the Lady of Winterfell, in any damned town." He mocked her. "The fuck you doing here, girl?!" he nearly roared down at her in a way that once would have made her flinch. His temper had grown shorter in their time apart.

"This brothel is absolutely safer than King's Landing, in the hands of Joffrey and Cersei. Where you _left_ me." she snapped back at him, failing to conceal a bitterness she hadn't known she'd harbored. "You could have stayed. Instead, the mighty Hound fled the city with his tail tucked between his legs."

His good eyebrow raised, he snarled."Aye, he told the Lannisters and the King and all those knights you love so much to go and fuck themselves. But he did not flee, girl." His body tensed and seemed to grow larger somehow with his rage, nostrils flared, and his voice rose and rose until Sansa began to worry someone would hear them.

"I have no more love for those knights than you do, Hound." she struggled to keep her voice level as adrenaline threatened to overtake her. Or was she simply feeling faint again? Before she could answer herself, a sudden, sharp surge of pain swept her abdomen. It was like before, but with less intensity. All the blood drained from her head in an instant and she started to collapse again, falling into the arms of the Hound.

He supported her to stand, and lifted her chin to look at him. He was still glaring, but it had softened somewhat. His scarring may as well have not existed when she found the sorrow in his eyes. "I asked you to come with me. You didn't want to." he said.

Maintaining consciousness in his embrace, she studied the way his mouth twitched as he said it. "You certainly have a bad habit of entering my chamber uninvited." She managed, her recollections of that night pulling her into the darkness again. He lifted her from the floor then, cradling her body.

"You're pale, Little Bird. Seems I'll be taking you home after all." She heard his voice rumble faintly, before she allowed her eyes to close.


End file.
